Cravings
by Baroness Kika
Summary: Two days in Peeta Mellark's life when his compulsions tried to get the better of him. Part of the All the Right Friends in All the Right Places AU, set both before and after recovery. AtRF spoilers ahead.
1. Before

_A/: The following was written as a (very belated!) birthday present for haka_nai, a dear friend and fellow Recovery!Peeta lover who at one point __wanted to know a little more about Jo and Cato in the world of AtRF before Cato's untimely demise. So here's a thing about all three of them in the days before Peeta began his journey into sobriety._

_This is not necessarily the happiest of glimpses into Recovery!Peeta's life, but I think it's a worthwhile one all the same. And Laryn darling - I hope you like it. ILY and I'm sorry this wasn't done on your ACTUAL birthday! 3Kika_

* * *

"What's up, Fucker!?" Cato hollers at me when I step through the door of the Sword and Ax. My hands shake a little as I saunter up to the bar, but steady a little as I wave down the bartender to place my order. Not that any of these bartenders don't know my order.

"What's up, man? Where's Jo-Jo?" I say to Cato as I bring the icy glass to my lips. The bitter minerals of the tonic and the crispness of the lime mingle perfectly with the gin and a smile breaks out across my face. Holy _shit_ did I need this drink.

"Outside bumming smokes from someone, the little bitchface. Still fucking incapable of buying her own cancer sticks," Cato sneers and motions for a refill of his own drink. He's keeping it simple—it's $3 domestic beer night—and a new mug is slid over to him quickly. Drinks in hand, we make our ways toward the screened in patio in the back and sidle over to Jo, who's puffing away like a little chimney. She lets her cigarette dangle in her mouth as she waves us over, and then uses the cherry of one to light a second to hand to Cato.

"Sorry, Peet, I couldn't scrounge one up for you," she says as she steals a sip of Cato's beer and props herself up on the railing of the patio.

"Nah, fuck that, those things'll kill ya," I say as I tip the glass back and crunch an ice cube in my back teeth.

"What the fuck doesn't kill you, Jesus," Jo says as she blows a smoke ring in Cato's direction. It's a perfect little circle that Cato flicks with his middle finger, making the pair of them laugh hysterically.

"Have any hotties today, Peet?" Cato asks a minute later.

"Nah, just a couple of older ladies and a dude," I reply.

"Ewww," Jo hisses, tipping backwards slightly until I have to grab onto her arm for balance. "You couldn't fuckin' pay me enough to do that shit, man."

I shrug. I like my job fine. Naked people don't bother me. In fact, the clients who've been laying on my table naked are the most skin I've seen in a few months. My eyes quickly scan the general populace of the bar and, much to my dismay, come up with very few tempting prospects.

"We need to get you laid, Peet, don't we?" Cato says, as though he's read my mind.

"Eh, I'm good," I say. My nerves say otherwise, and I drain my glass quickly. Usually I nurse my first drink or two of the evening, but tonight seems to be demanding something different. The pair of them need to finish those goddamn cigarettes so I can get back in there and get another drink already.

They take a painfully long time finishing, meaning I all but race them inside and slam my glass down on the bar. I'm soothed as I watch the bartender's lithe fingers pour a hefty shot of gin into my glass and squeeze the lime wedge over the ice before using the soda gun to top the drink off. I nod appreciatively, but as I turn away, I stop in my tracks.

Leaning in the corner near the jukebox is a girl. I can't see her face, but I recognize her immediately. My heart seems to pound within my chest and my feet move towards her without thinking. It's the braid, I know it—who the hell else has hair that dark that so effortlessly weaves into that perfect of a braid. It wraps across the back of her head like a halo, just like it always did in high school. I'm within a few feet of her when she turns to her friend next to her, her mouth open in a congenial laugh and her brown eyes—

Brown eyes. Not grey. And her skin is too pale, certainly not nearly olive-toned enough. Her jaw line is wrong. It's just the hair, I realize. It's just the hair, and not _her._

I turn back around and saunter back to the bar. Somehow my drink has drained itself again.

* * *

_Much. Fucking. Better._

"Listen, I'm not saying she's dumb, honestly, I have a lot of respect for…"

"Bullshit you do, Peeta, fucking bullshit!"

"Calm your tits, Cato…"

"Fuck you and your tits, bitch!"

This is par for the course for Cato and I this many hours in. Jo is not amused. Clearly, she just needs another drink.

"Guys, fuck, you're such assholes."

"We aren't talking about you, Jo-Jo, Christ!"

"You're talking about my kind, fuck-nuts, so back the hell off!"

"You need another drink, Jo-Jo, come on," I tell her, wrapping my arm around her and leading her back inside. She has to drop her cigarette in a hurry to keep from dragging it into the bar with us. We each pound on the wooden bar top to get the girl's attention and she turns to me.

"Fuck you, Peeta, you're hanging out with Cato too much," she tells me.

"Fuck me? _You're _the one who's fucking him, Jo," I tell her with a smirk before placing our orders (it's a change in bartenders for the closing shift)—a vodka gimlet for Jo, my usual G&T.

"Yeah, I know. Look, he's good with his tongue, it's nothing…"

"Fuck, Jo, I don't wanna know. Fuck him all you want, it's all good. It probably always was gonna happen for you two," I say, patting her back a little too agressively.

Her brown-eyes flash up at me. "Why me and him?"

"What the fuck do you mean?" I say, knocking back my drink in one fell swoop and waving my finger for another. Because fuck if I'm gonna crash right now, okay?

"Why me and _him, _Peet?" she asks, quieter this time. Fuck me. Did she just say what I think she did?

"I dunno, Jo, you guys just…you've known him longer."

"So?"

"I mean, there's a code amongst guys, you know…don't fuck around with…"

"So?"

_Fuck, Jo. Stop._

"He's gonna kick my ass if I don't get him his beer," I say, changing the subject quick. I'm pleased with myself that I remember my friend—my _best _friend, my _brother_—at a time like this. Clearly this is why I was meant to be this functional of a drinker, right? I always remember my friends.

So why the fuck is Johanna's hand on my ass?

"Why me and _him,_ Peeta?" Jo coos into my ear. If it weren't enough that the voice of hers that she can turn on like a lightswitch isn't sort of impossibly fucking sexy, there's that brunette at the end of the bar. With the braid. With nothing else that looks even remotely like _her, _but she's wearing that goddamn braid.

"Jo," I hiss lowly, grabbing my G&T and Cato's beer. "He's my fucking best friend, okay?"

"_I'm _your best friend," she says, batting her eyelashes.

"You're fucking drunk," I tell her.

"So are you, you fucker."

"Stop, Jo. Let's just go fucking drink and we'll talk later," I say, biting my lip hard. I swear I feel grey—no, brown—eyes boring into me. And I want them to fucking stop before they judge me.

Why the fuck would they judge me? I don't have anything to be ashamed of. Fuck _her. _Fuck her and her stupid braid and her skin that's too pale and her smile. _She _never fucking smiles anyway so why would this girl and her stupid braid do anything to me.

She's not real. She's not fucking shiny enough to be real.

I tip back my drink. Much better. Much fucking better.

* * *

The tonic always runs right through me. The fucking tonic, okay, not the gin. The gin is perfect. The gin is the best part of the drink. It's really too bad you probably fucking shouldn't shoot gin. Although if you did, fuck man: it'd be the greatest.

I head for the toilets back behind the bar with my eyes down; I don't wanna see _her_ if she's still around. She better fucking not be, I don't need that shit right now. I almost forgot about her is the bitch of it. Almost fucking forgot that scowl, those fucking grey eyes…that stupid braid. Fucking stupid ass braid. Almost forgot it all, and yeah, the booze helps, but I'm talking about outside of nights out with my friends. I almost forgot how much I always fucking wanted her, which I didn't even think was possible—

"Oh! Sorry, you okay?" the girl with that damn braid says when I run square into her while I stride angrily into the men's room. I scowl at her (let her see how it feels!) and go into the bathroom without another word. I take my piss and tuck myself back into my pants, swearing under my breath the whole fucking time because now I'm half hard and can't do anything about it. Why the fuck should I be hard? It's not even her.

I come out of the bathroom and almost run into her again. Except it's not her—it's Jo.

"Fuck, Peet, you know you just came out of the ladies'!" she laughs at me. Huh. Guess that's why that urinal was so high up. I just figured they did renovations since I was here last—night.

"The mens' smelled like asshole," I say with a roll of my eyes.

She cackles. She thinks it's hilarious. My brain flashes back to the fuzzy memory of the bar, her hand on my ass, squeezing it. How long ago was that? Ten minutes? An hour? A lifetime?

"What did you mean earlier, Jo?" I say, grabbing her arm as she tries to duck past me into the bathroom. She blinks a minute before pursing her lips—I can't deny that she looks pretty sexy when she does that.

"Why me and Cato?" she repeats, stepping an inch closer to me. She licks her lips. "Seems pretty fucking obvious to me, fucker."

"Why didn't you just—" I say quickly before I realize I don't actually know what the fuck to say about something like this. But for whatever reason, my hands, my face, my body knows exactly what to do. I grab her by the shoulders, walk her backwards towards the wall, and press my halfie against her hips as I close my mouth over hers. Her tongue darts into my mouth immediately and licks behind my upper teeth. She tastes like vodka and beer and the limes she steals out of my G&Ts to suck the gin out of. Her breathing through her nose is hot against my cheek. Her hips gyrate into mine, which doesn't help this hard-on none.

_When I pull away, her eyes will be grey._

So I do. But it's still Jo. Who's dating my fucking best friend. Who's like the sister I never goddamn had. I wanna fucking kick myself in the balls.

"He's my best friend," I slur.

"He's my boyfriend," she responds, her chest heaving a little.

"I'm gonna get a shot, you want one?"

"No, I'll stick with beer. Gotta piss," she says, pushing against my chest so she can stride into the bathroom. I turn on my toe and sidle up to the bar. Who cares if you aren't supposed to shoot gin? I'm going to anyway, and everything will be better.

* * *

Fuck this, man. I can't drive home. I mean, I didn't plan to, and I could walk from here, but—

"Peet, we bought a new six pack and a bottle of Patron before we came out!" Cato tells me. The sound of the last call bell grates my ears.

"Fuck, what?" I yell back.

"I said, why the fuck do we end it here!? It's Saturday god-damn night. You don't work tomorrow!"

Fuck. Like work tomorrow would stop me. Let's be real, here.

"He said Patron, Peeta!"

"Fuck you, I don't drink tequila!"

"You're such a snob, brother!" Cato says, slapping his credit card down on the bar hard enough that the stupid thing should break in half. The card. The bar. Something. "You and your fucking gin."

"It's good, bastard, lay the fuck off."

"Yeah, what the fuck ever. Just come back to our place, you pick your car up later. What the fuck would you do anyway?"

"Man, you don't fucking know!" I snap. But I don't know either.

"You big Daddy's boy, you weren't gonna do shit tomorrow!" Johanna cackles. _Fuck her. She doesn't know my dad._

"Fuck off, Jo," I say with a roll of my eyes. I've got some cash left over from last night at work. I mean tonight. But wait…it's closing time…

"You got cash, Peeta?" Cato yells. The bar is closing, and people are pissed. Most of all us. I don't want to go back to their house and listen to them having sex all night. Especially not when that fucking brunette keeps staring at me. _Your eyes are the wrong color, okay? They should be grey. You shouldn't smile so much._

"Yeah, here," I say, throwing the wad of bills at him to use to tip out the bartenders before we stumble home. Fuck if I'm driving right now. Why the fuck would I want to drive when I could just…

"You coming with us, brother?" Cato says. We're outside. How the fuck did we get outside so fast? They're smoking. Where'd they get the cigarettes from?

"Yeah, fine, whatever. I can't drive anyway."

"This is what I'm saying," Jo says, throwing her spindly little arms around either of us. "My boys won't ever abandon me."

"Not on your life, baby," Cato says with a cocky smirk. He grabs her tit, and I pretend not to notice. Not my fucking place.

"Huh, Peet?" Jo says, planting a sloppy kiss on my face.

"'Course, Jo-Jo. All-for-fucking-one…"

"And one for fucking all!" Cato and Jo holler back.

* * *

Christ. Do they _have_ to fuck so damn loud?

"Cato! Fuck, Cato, right there!" Jo screams from the bedroom. I put my pillow around my head and sigh heavily.

"Oh yeah, baby, you like it like that?" Cato growls back to her. They never try to be quiet. I don't blame 'em. I told them I was just gonna pass the fuck out. I should have just passed the fuck out. Tequila usually does that for me.

"_Fuck me!" _God. Johanna really is a fucking screamer.

It's not like I'm jealous or whatever. I've made plenty of girls make those noises. When Marina and I would…or when Bristel and I…or…um…

What the fuck ever. They're loud. They're obnoxious. I'll just fall asleep and in the morning they'll still be passed out, and I'll be…

Fuck. Why am I hard right now?

The girl. The braid. That fucking braid. No one should be allowed to wear braids except her, okay? Fuck. Why the fuck would she wear a braid that pretty? Shouldn't her hair be teased up into a big poufy ball, or straightened within an inch of it's oily-little-life? That's how chicks are here. I mean…the normal ones. I suppose she's not…but I mean…

Fuck. Stop it, dick.

"_Ca-to!"_

"_An-na!"_

Fuck you both.

I spit in my hand and slide my shorts down over my rock-hard dick. And not for nothing or whatever, but I'm pretty sure I come harder than Cato does in the other room. And he's actually got a girl to spill inside of.

* * *

I have no idea what time it is when I wake up. There isn't a clock in the living room and I feel far, far too terrible to actually get up and go into the kitchen to check the one on the microwave. I'm just glad I don't have to work today.

"'Sup, man?" Cato says horsely as he pads out of his and Jo's bedroom and goes to the kitchen. "Hair of the dog?"

"Jesus Christ, yes please," I grunt, rolling over onto my belly and moaning into the pillow. Guess I didn't drink enough water last night. I can't remember the last time I was this hungover.

Cato pops the top of a couple of Fat Tires and hands one to me. I sip it gratefully, even though I've never been a beer fan, and the mix of carbonation, icy cold, and hoppy alcohol grain quells the fire in my stomach. Sort of. When I go to set the bottle down on the coffee table, my hand sticks to it for a second. I scrunch my eyes together (which only exacerbates my raging headache) to try to see if there's something on the bottle itself.

It's not the bottle. It's my hand. Why the hell is my hand so tacky?

"Where the fuck is your shirt, man?" Cato says, reclining in the Lazy-Boy across from me and leaning back before balancing the bottom of the bottle on his forehead, probably as a means to relieve his own aching head. He and Jo had a head start on me, after all.

"I don't…guess I took it off. Fuck, man, what did we do last night?" I say, reluctantly sitting up to search around for the garment in question. Cato snorts and takes a long pull of the bottle.

"Man, you know me. I don't remember shit after the third shot. Ask Jo-Jo, she's the one with drunk memory," he scoffs.

My shirt is wedged under the couch cushions. I go to unbundle it and pull it back on over my head when I see the telltale patch of chalky white gunk smeared over the back. My cheeks flush and I'm glad that Cato has his eyes closed so he doesn't see. I chance feeling my stomach and note it's just as sticky as my hand is.

Huh. Well that answers _one _question of what _I_ did last night.

"She in the bathroom?" I grumble to Cato and steel myself for the eventuality of standing up. He grunts something that sounds like a no, so I hoist myself off the couch and stumble down the hall and lock the door behind me. I don't know who or what I was thinking of that got me off _that _hard, but this patch is a doozy. No wonder I'm still all sticky.

When my hand and stomach are cleaned off and I've rinsed most of my own semen out of the back of my t-shirt, I hang it over the shower rod and steal one of Cato's from the back of the bathroom door to wear until it dries. I can always just say that I spilled something on mine and need to borrow this one for the day, but it's not like he's really gonna mind. I should probably just keep a spare change of clothes here anyway. And apparently a bottle of lube for how badly my chafed my dick feels.

Jo wakes up an hour (and two beers for Cato and I each) later and by that point, I'm functional enough to crack some eggs into a frying pan and put some bacon in the microwave. We all eat greedily and the grease settles our stomachs admirably. Finally I note that it's nearly 3 in the afternoon, and I promised my dad I'd swing by his house to help him with some yard work and have dinner with him. Knowing I'll need a proper shower and shave to get the stink of our night off me, I change back into my own shirt and say a quick "See you later" before stumbling out the door.

Jo runs out behind me a minute later. "Peet! Hold up, I need to say something."

"What's up, Jo?" I ask, squinting as the bright sunlight already starts to bring my headache back.

"I just figured we'd, you know, talk about what happened real quick."

I must gape at her. _What the fuck does she mean "what happened"?_

"…You…don't remember, do you?"

"Fuck, Jo, did you see my tab last night? I'm amazed I didn't leave half my shit at the bar for all I remember," I say with a shrug.

Her face turns serious and she steps close to me. Her voice is low as she says, "You really don't remember kissing me?"

_Fuck. Me._

"Come again?" I say, but I don't actually need her to repeat her words. The memory claws its way out of the shiny woodwork of everything that we did last night, and I suddenly remember in great, terrible detail shoving her up against the wall near the pay phone, grinding my hips into hers, and our tongues wrestling for dominance. I fucking kissed my best friend's girlfriend—who also happens to be my _other _best friend—and then drank the memory away.

_What a fucking asshole, Peeta Mellark. You should be sterilized._

"Look, we were wasted, Cato doesn't have to know, okay?" Jo says, bouncing from foot to foot quickly and looking nervously back at the house. "Let's just forget it every happened, alright?"

"Yeah…yeah sure. That was…sorry, Jo, that was fucked up of me," I say quickly, wanting to get as far away as possible right now.

"I didn't try to stop you, it's cool. I'll just see you later, alright? Let us know you got back to your car and home safe, all that jazz," she says, her hand running through her short brown hair before sauntering back into the house. I promise I will and head off quickly on foot in the direction of the bar.

When I slide behind the wheel, I let the engine idle as I pull up my dad's number. He doesn't answer, so I leave a quick message telling him that I ended up getting called into work to cover for Finnick who's out sick and I'll have to stop by another day. The lie is smooth, even if it does make me feel like a prick and a bad son, but no way can I face Dad after what I'd done the night before sober, and no way can I drink as heavily as I need to right now and still be functional to help him around the house.

The woman at my usual liquor store doesn't even bat an eyelash when I set down the large bottle of Seagrams and the six pack of chilled tonic water on her counter. I practically throw my card at her, and leave without so much as telling her to have a nice day as well. My car steers itself into my parking lot and I run up the stairs quickly.

As I take the first long sip of my drink, I think back to the night before. I swear in my mind's eye I see a girl and a braid, but I can't be sure; everything is just too shiny.


	2. After

_A/N: On a happier, lighter note, the following oneshot takes place several years after the AtRF epilogue. _

_This was written for Court8198, not only for her upcoming birthday, but also in gratitude for being a fantastic friend, listener, and a beta/pre-reader for a new WiP I have in motion. At my best, my smut can't quite touch her's, but hopefully she'll enjoy this little married!Everlark interlude all the same. Thank you for being YOU, Court, and happy birthday!_

* * *

The craving hits when I'm on the T, a bag of groceries tucked up against my left hip and my right hand holding steadfastly to the bar above my head. I'm three stops away from my home stop, which means I'm fifteen minutes max from our apartment. The knowledge doesn't keep my hands from shaking. I lick my lips idly and take a deep breath through my nose. _I can do this. No problem._

The walk is agonizing. I shift the bag back and forth between my hands to keep them busy, glad I don't have anything heavier inside it than a bag of apples and a half gallon of almond milk. I automatically cross the street to avoid Doc Lund's Pub the block before our building. Usually I can walk right by it without a problem, but not when I'm in the middle of craving so bad my eyes want to bug out of my head. I practically jog the last block and tear up the stairs at top speed, shoving my key into the lock and bolting the door behind me when I finally get it to turn, despite my shaky, shaky hands.

I put the groceries away successfully without dropping anything until I go to put a handful of food into Sammy's dish. The hard pellets scatter across the floor and my heel crunches a few under the sole of my shoe. I swear at myself, but don't both to clean it up since Sammy will do it anyway. I move into the bedroom to change out of my work scrubs and into my house clothes before going into the bathroom to splash some cold water on my face. My bare foot makes acquaintance with a patch of kitty litter that Sammy's flicked out of her box and I swear again.

"Fucking cat," I seethe as I wipe my face with the navy colored hand towel and rifle around in the medicine cabinet for the little box I know is still half full. The tiny patches are organized very, very neatly, but I still have to fumble through several of them before I find the one I'm after.

Katniss's neat, tiny handwriting adorns the beige plastic backing. My lips can't help but quirk upwards as I read the note she's scrawled there.

_This is an emergency patch. The fact that you're putting this on instead of lighting up makes me so proud of you._

I remove the adhesive backing and stick the patch underneath my left tricep before tearing off the one in the same place on my right. The writing is mostly rubbed off from my day at work, but I still remember what it said.

_Peeta—It has been 37 days since you quit smoking, and you're doing beautifully. I love you so much.—Katniss_

They say these nicotine patches are supposed to last upwards of 24 hours; I don't buy it. It takes a second for the familiar tingling sensation as the imprinted nicotine works its way into my skin and bloodstream before I calm slightly. I rub my jaw and sigh heavily. My hands are still shaking. Patch, gum, hard candy, keeping my hands busy so they don't miss the feeling of a cigarette pressed between my index and middle finger: sometimes it's not enough to completely quell these cravings. I'm not sure if the booze cravings I still get from time to time, despite being several years into sobriety, are as bad.

"Emergency patch, huh?" her voice calls out sweetly from the bathroom door. She's still so quiet I can barely tell when she's snuck up on me, even with the creaky hardwood floors of our apartment and the front door that always catches with a squeal when it opens. I must have been pretty out of it to not even hear that much.

"Don't know why, though. I went to lunch with Thresh and he must have smoked four in front of me without me even batting an eye," I say, shaking myself and trying to still my hands. She must notice them for how she strides forward and takes them in her own. She presses her lips to each of my knuckles in turn and as I watch her, I wonder how it's possible I got so damn lucky. Her lips graze over my father's—no, _my_ wedding ring on my left hand and she smiles at me.

"But you didn't go buy a pack, I can tell. Your hands don't smell like it. Your hair doesn't smell like it. It'll pass," she says.

"It's better. It's fine now, actually," I reply, silently adding the reason as I look at her. She drops my hands so they're able to find purchase on her hips as she wraps her arms around my neck. Her lips brush against my neck and it sends an involuntary shiver down my spine. I press my palms into her lower back so she's flush against me. My hands aren't shaking anymore.

"That's too bad," she whispers into my ear. "I was going to try to distract you out of it."

My eyes roll back in my head when her teeth fit around my earlobe, and I feel my hips jut against hers insistently. "Katniss…" I murmur back.

"I can distract you anyway. Unless you had better plans for what to do tonight," she coos. I don't let her get another thought out before my lips find hers hungrily and I scoop her up into my arms. I walk through the mess of kitty litter again, but I don't have it in me to care as I cart my wife off to our bed.

Our hands fumble together to yank the buttons of her silk blouse free. I pop up on my knees in front of her and begin to work on the side zipper of her pencil skirt while she shrugs the garment off her shoulders. I bend at the waist and kiss her hip in the spot under the zipper before moving my mouth across her abdomen, twirling my tongue into her belly button quickly before letting the very tip ghost upwards towards her bra. It's the white, boustier-style one she'd worn under her wedding dress. I wonder if she'd planned this when she got dressed this morning.

Her breath catches in her throat in that delicious way I still have never tired of after all these years as I grasp the lace cup between my teeth and pull it down, exposing her nipple to the cool air of our bedroom. Her back seems to bow up when my tongue laves across the bud, and her fingers twine into the hair at the base of my skull, gently guiding my movements while her free hand twists behind her back to unsnap the long series of clasps. I bat her hand away gently without breaking my attention from the dusky-colored mound in my mouth

"Maybe I like it on you," I tease between torturous licks, and she moans headily.

"Maybe I want to be naked for you," she groans as I kiss up her neck and suckle on her pulse point.. I nip at the skin before rearing back on my knees smiling at her deviously.

"In a minute, maybe," I joke as I step back off the bed and help her nudge the skirt and stockings off her hips. She spreads her thighs and pokes me in the belly with her big toe as I shift back onto the bed next to her.

"You forgot another something," she says, looking down at the matching shade of white, barely-there panties I've deliberately left on her. I shake my head as I hover over and allow my knuckles to graze against the smooth skin of her thighs before my surprisingly steady hand burrows underneath the waistband and I spread her folds with my fingers. My digits just barely probe inside her, collecting a bit of the moisture seeping from her before spreading it upwards. She props herself up on her elbows at the same time I bend forward, and our mouths lock together feverishly as I circle her clit with my hand. Her breath comes in quick snorts against my cheek and her core trembles underneath my hand. Her eyes dart open and seek mine out, her silver irises imploring me silently as they darken before my very gaze.

I moan gently into her mouth and let my eyes flutter shut, focusing my attention on her slick core and the feel of her tongue massaging mine. She rubs her sex against my hand, seeking out the added friction that will send her over the edge; one of my fingers twists inside her slowly and I feel her gasp against my lips. The kiss breaks a second later so I can watch her face contort in ecstasy as I work her to completion.

"Peeta…" she gasps, her jaw going slack at the same time her abdomen and legs seem to lock up, a sure sign she's close. "Babe, please."

"Come for me," I tell her with a smirk. My finger curls against her walls, causing her hips to jerk suddenly. I grind the heel of my hand into her clit so I can slide another finger inside her and repeat the motion, reveling in the feeling of her walls fluttering around my steady hands.

"Oh God!" she cries as her head falls back against her shoulders; a long moan follows, her walls gripping my fingers tight as she rides out her orgasm. Her breasts rise and fall as she slumps backwards when as the feeling wanes, though her smile up at me is brilliant and perfect, just like she is.

"Need a second?" I say coyly as run my tongue along my moistened fingers and she giggles softly as she tosses her head back and forth.

"Just a short one," she pants. I move back off the bed to rid myself of my t-shirt and shorts before hooking my fingers into the thin straps of her panties and pulling them down and off her legs. She rolls obediently to her side so I can work the little eyelets free, and I graze the skin above her spine reverently when the material separates just before she rolls onto her back. She tugs the garment off her body and tosses it to the very foot of the bed before opening her arms to me. My hips settle between her thighs and I welcome the feeling of her arms around my shoulders as the tip of my cock rubs idly against her.

It's an immediate impulse to reach for the bedside table for a condom before I allow myself to slide inside her; when my left hand does so, she grasps it firmly with her right and twines our fingers together, murmuring the reminder that it's unnecessary before arching her back and coaxing my length inside her. We share a strangled moan as our hips begin to move automatically, her bucking pelvis matching the thrust of my own. Our skin slaps together deliciously as my pace quickens automatically, but I slow again when she places her hand on my lower back and nips at my bottom lip.

"Take your time," she whispers, her eyes molten as they gaze up into mine. "You feel perfect."

"You're perfect," I murmur back, rolling into her slower, much more deliberately so that the tip of me can graze against her most anterior wall in the exact right way. She gasps when I continue this and her neck arches against the mattress.

"Yes!" she hisses, her teeth clamping down on her bottom lip as I repeat the motion again and again. I sample the skin of her exposed throat as I rock into her, feeling her clench and pulsate against me. Years have passed since the very first time we did this, and yet it is still the very best high I've experienced. Katniss is better than the stiffest gin and tonic, the smoothest inhale of a cigarette, the highest buzz I've ever sought out to waylay the demons in my head and calm my anxious spirit. She's real. She's perfect. And we belong to one another, always.

"_Yes!_" she cries again as her legs wrap tightly around my lower back. My thrusts have hastened yet again and I know I can't slow down again for how badly I want to release inside her already.

"K-Katniss," I groan into her ear, but she cuts me off when her lips claim mine and she pants into my mouth, nodding her head in anticipation. The luscious way she feels as I plunge in and out of her is too much for me a second later, and my spine turns to jelly as I come inside her with a shout.

I slump to her side a second later, our legs and arms twisted together as we kiss languidly and try to catch our breath. Eventually I soften to the point of being unable to stay inside her and I tuck her head under my chin and play with the tip of her braid as we bask in the afterglow.

"You didn't smoke today," she says brightly.

"Nope," I reply with a smile.

"Was this a good reward for that?"

"What do you think?"

She laughs and presses her body closer to mine. My left hand smooths across her hip and up the curve of her ribcage. She turns slightly in my arms so I can rest my hand against her belly and I flatten my hand against it. My thumb taps the skin below her navel idly as I try not to over think.

I know she's doing the same thing when her hand covers mine and presses it in hard. "You, um…suppose that did it?" she whispers quietly.

A smile spreads across my face. I quit smoking a month ago for a very, very specific reason. We haven't had much luck yet, but eventually the odds are bound to be in our favor for this.

"Maybe it did. Maybe it didn't. But I don't mind the trying," I whisper back and let my eyes drift closed. It's too early to sleep for the night, of course, but a little catnap before I make love to her again, just in case this time _wasn't_ what did it is always welcome.

The sun sets a muted orange outside our bedroom window as we drift off together. I'm not sure about her, but I dream of wispy strands of dark peach-fuzz hair and wide blue eyes.


End file.
